eighth
1 January
The eighth day of Christmas
Christen absolutely, unequivocally should not have stayed out till midnight.
She wakes up with a headache that thuds right through her temples despite the fact that her brain feels like it’s stuffed with wool. She sneezes while she’s still half-asleep and startles herself, then sneezes three more times before she can catch a breath and sinks back into her pillows exhausted. It’s not the first time she’s been ill without her parents looking after her - she spent six years at boarding school, for goodness sake - but she’s never been ill, alone, in this house. She sniffles, then sneezes, then starts to cry.
Her phone is blinking on the nightstand, and she scrabbles for it out of pure habit even though, sure enough, the light pierces straight through her head. The text of her emails blurs in front of her eyes and she scrolls pretty much unseeingly until suddenly her screen is filled with a selfie of Mrs Harvey with a cow.
It’s so unexpected that Christen blinks for a solid ten seconds before she even registers the message.
Hi Christen
We’re so happy to have you on board and can’t express how grateful we are. Looking forward to speaking about the next steps once you’re feeling better!
In the meantime, if you need a milk delivery you have only to ask!
Best wishes, and happy new year!
Laura x
She shakes her head determinedly a few times, like it’ll clear the fog. It doesn’t. The message is still there, and makes no more sense than it did the first time. On board how? Next steps where? Grateful why?
...Oh.
Oh, of all the fucking things. Cows.
A shower helps, kind of, to the extent that it leaves her head clear enough to pull on some clothes and stumble downstairs. It’s misty out, the trees no more than blurry outlines in the distance, the swans - lots of swans - gliding noiselessly on the lake, the calls of the birds in the branches muffled even through the faint ringing in Christen’s ears. She pretty much sleepwalks her way through the egg collection and feeding routine. The chickens and geese cluster around her feet, pecking expectantly, only to scatter in panic with each of her increasingly explosive sneezes. It feels like a metaphor for her utterly frazzled state of mind.
It’s freezing cold, her throat feels like broken glass, and she is absolutely seething by the time she gets back inside only to hear the bell ring.
When she opens the door to see Tobin, wearing a fucking Christmas sweater and smiling that infuriatingly beautiful smile and absolutely glowing with health, Christen wastes no time shoving her phone in her face. ‘Does this have something to do with you?’
‘Oh.’
‘Yep. Oh. Why is Mrs Harvey emailing me at 5am on New Year’s Day?’
‘Chris, I can explain -’
‘You’d fucking better, because it sounds uncannily like I now have some kind of involvement in the dairy farm?’
‘Can I come in?’
‘No.’
‘You’re shivering -’
‘In that case you’d better talk fast.’
Tobin swallows. ‘It was what you said yesterday - about the farm, and Mrs Harvey and your mom, and how it would be another link gone if they had to move away. So I went to see them, and…’
‘And what, Tobin?’
‘I bought it. It’s yours.’
It had been the most likely explanation for that bizarre email, so Christen shouldn’t be surprised, but it’s still a shock to hear it confirmed. She stares dumbstruck at Tobin but then she can’t hold back a sneeze, then another, and is so furious at the indignity of it that she snaps. ‘Just… what the fuck. It’s crazy. You’re crazy. You bought me a farm?’
Tobin flinches and Christen hates her for it, hates how cruel it makes her feel. But it is crazy. The whole thing is completely insane - not just the farm, but the fact that she now owns hens and fucking geese, and there are partridges and doves flying around everywhere and even now her head is clanging with birdsong. And she never asked for a single bit of it.
‘You don’t have to do anything,’ Tobin tries, her voice tight and unfamiliar. ‘With the farm, I mean. You’re just the investor. They’re open to you getting involved if you want to, but otherwise - it was an injection of capital, no strings, and I just thought you might - and I put them in touch with one of Dad’s strategy consultants to look into the profitability going forward, so...’ She trails off. ‘I really thought you’d be pleased.’
‘I have literally no idea why you’d think that.’
‘Because you care,’ shoots back Tobin, surprisingly insistent given how unsure she’d just sounded. ‘You care about the Harveys and you care about the farm. You literally said so. I mean, I knew it would be a surprise, but I don’t understand why you’re so mad.’
‘And I don’t understand why you can’t see that you’re utterly out of your fucking mind.’
‘That’s not fair.’
‘Isn’t it?’
Christen’s head is throbbing so hard she can barely focus, even when Tobin is standing right there looking like Christen’s slapped her. ‘You can’t give someone forty cows and a business model as a Christmas present. Why can’t you see that? What’s wrong with you?’
‘If you don’t want it, that’s fine. The farm’s safe whatever you decide. You can forget all about this and I’ll transfer the interest somewhere else. They just needed help, and I thought it was important to you, but if I was wrong, I’m sorry.’ Tobin shivers hard, just once, hands coming up to hug her sides protectively. Her voice wavers slightly, but Christen knows somehow it isn’t from the cold. ‘I’m sorry about all of this. I didn’t mean…’
Something sharp, anxious, cuts through the haze of frustration fogging up Christen’s brain. ‘Tobin -’
‘I’m gonna go,’ says Tobin quietly. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll fix things with Laura.’
Christen is exhausted after she closes the door, so drained she can’t think straight. It feels like the whole conversation - the fight, she amends miserably, that was most definitely a fight - had happened to someone else, with Christen just watching from the sidelines or floating high above, looking down at the tops of her and Tobin’s heads. Nothing feels real outside the dull, steady pounding between her ears.
It’s blissfully warm in the kitchen, and she knows she should make some hot tea and take some Tylenol and get herself properly settled - but the chair is right in her path, and she only means to sit down for a moment, only rest her head on the table for a second…
She wakes from her doze with a jerk and doesn’t know how long she’s been asleep. The sun is now full and bright and streaming through the windows. At first she doesn’t know what woke her up, but then a shadow cuts across her vision. There’s someone moving around quietly, and Christen is about to scream when her dulled brain finally realizes it’s just Becky.
‘You’re awake,’ Becky greets her amiably. She’s hefting grocery bags onto the countertop, like everything is normal, like she’s meant to be there.
Christen blinks at her stupidly. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Tobin sent me. She’s been pulled into some emergency meeting so she gave me her spare key. Didn’t she tell you?’
Christen shakes her head and tries to speak, clearing her throat painfully. ‘What’s all that?’
Becky peers at the nearest bag. ‘Ingredients. Your chicken noodle soup, I think. Tobs is going to text me the recipe.’ She hesitates and sits down on the next chair, her voice gentle. ‘Christen, did she really not say anything? I thought this was something she’d planned for you.’
‘Tobin plans a lot of stuff,’ says Christen dully.
She remembers the way Tobin had looked on the doorstep that morning, all that hope and excitement, and the way Christen had made her face fall.
She remembers Tobin’s shining eyes as the snow fell around them in Kelley’s garden, and how much, how badly she had wanted to kiss her.
She remembers that it’s New Year’s Day, and she’s just sent away the only thing that made the last year bearable.
She’s very glad, suddenly, that she’s too tired to cry any more.